


Future Deductions

by allonym



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonym/pseuds/allonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wasn’t going to let Sherlock brush her off.   Not easily.  John couldn’t resist helping a damsel in distress,  hopeless cause or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Deductions

**Author's Note:**

> Right now this is a one-shot that's been niggling at my brain. I may write more in the future.

The prospective client sat hunched at the edge of the chair, clasping her hands together.   Her clothes were expensive, but fit poorly.  The pink cashmere cardigan made her skin look sallow and was the wrong length for the flared brown skirt.  Her frizzy blond hair was tied back with a cheap elastic band, and her white designer shoes were horribly scuffed.  The oversized black handbag beside her was of good quality, but did not match her sweater or shoes.

A woman with money but low self-esteem.  She didn’t believe that she deserved nice things.  Her heavy gold band was loose on her finger.  She’d lost weight since her wedding and hadn’t resized it.  Feeling trapped in her marriage?  Possibly a victim of domestic abuse.  She flinched as John entered the sitting room from the kitchen and crossed behind her, carrying a tea tray.  Probably domestic abuse then.

Dull.  Why did John have to make tea?  It would make it much harder to get rid of her.  Sherlock looked over at his flatmate, but John was watching the woman as he poured the tea, his body language even more unassuming than usual.  Ah, he had noticed the same signs as Sherlock, of course.  In certain limited areas, John’s powers of observation were almost as good as Sherlock’s. 

Getting rid of her would be even harder than he thought.

“Ms. Waters, was it?” Sherlock said sharply.  She tensed.  Sherlock ignored the look John was giving him

“Mrs.. . .that is, it’s Mrs. Waters.  Carol Waters.  My husband is travelling on business right now.”  She looked at the tea cup in front of her but did not drink.

Sherlock repressed a sigh.  No doubt her husband was bedding half of Europe and she wanted proof. Not that she’d leave the man anyway.  Dull, dull, dull.

"Why exactly are you here?”   Sherlock bit off the sentence before he could add “wasting my time.”

“Sherlock. . .” said John, obviously hearing the silent addendum.

A nervous smile ghosted across Mrs. Waters face and was gone.  “I need your help.   I’ve lost something, an old family heirloom.  My husband’s family.  Actually, it was taken from me.”

Hmm.  Taken, not stolen.  Interesting.  “And this heirloom, I assume it has merely sentimental value?”

“No, it’s quite valuable in itself.  A gold ring, quite old. My husband will be very cross if he learns it’s gone to the wrong hands.”

“Does he have a temper, your husband?” asked John mildly, watching her carefully. 

“Oh, well, sometimes.  He’s a good man – a very good man.  But some things can set him off.   He means well, though.  He only wants to help people.” 

Typical.  And John wasn’t going to let Sherlock brush her off.   Not easily.  John couldn’t resist helping a damsel in distress,  hopeless cause or not.

Sherlock examined her again, trying to find anything that would indicate anything other than a walking cliché.   Head to toe, she was every inch the stereotype of a beaten-down spouse.  He hadn’t seen anyone whose personal details so exactly fit a pattern since. . .

Hmm.  Since Jim from IT.  He sat back, steepling his fingers, studying her a third time.  Not a single misleading element.  Which was unheard of – everyone exhibited stray data points that didn’t quite fit the template.  He was reminded of his first encounter with Irene, her placid shell as a courtesan deflecting all his observations.  In this case, the canvas had been painted over, but the picture was too perfect.

“You’re wearing a disguise,” he said.  “Take it off, and I might help you.”

Her eyes widened and she looked over at John in confusion.  For a moment Sherlock wondered if he might be wrong.

“Sherlock!” said John reprovingly.

Then she laughed, a full-throated joyful sound.   “Oh, you really _are_ as good as they say.”  He voice was deeper now, filled with confidence.   Her body straightened as she pulled the elastic band from her hair and dropped it on the floor, releasing a riot of curls.   She shucked off the cardigan, revealing a pale sleeveless top and rather shapely arms.  The shoes were next to go, kicked off under the coffee table, and then she opened her handbag to pull out a pair of leather boots.   She dropped the ring in the open bag and snapped it closed, and began pulling on the boots.  Sherlock caught a glimpse of the tag inside the left boot and raised his brows in surprise.

“Well then, is that better?” she said with a grin.

He smirked at her, studying the new persona, trying to decide whether it was just another layer of disguise.

“Oh, don’t bother trying to deduce me, Mr. Holmes.  You can’t possibly have the relevant data,” she said with confidence.

Oh, a challenge.  Wonderful.  Her comment about missing data meant there was information she thought he couldn’t access.  Given his connections, he could in theory access any information available in this time and place.  If she was telling the truth, then she must be from very far away indeed, despite her accent.

He had to discount all external factors – clothes, mannerisms – as potentially falsified.  However, the fact that her acting abilities were so finely honed was a clue in itself.   Actress, conman, spy. . .   Her underlying physiology was another clue – the muscles in her arms were not developed overnight.  Sherlock leaned forward and quickly grabbed for her right hand, but she pulled it away before he could reach it.  She was very fast.

“Your hand, if you please,” he said calmly, holding his own out.  She narrowed her eyes but held out her hand willingly enough.   He took it in his palm and tried to pull it closer, but she resisted.  She was also very strong. 

“Are you a palm reader, then?” she asked playfully.

 “Of a sort,” he said, examining the faint calluses.   She was used to handling a hand gun of some sort, but not one he was familiar with.

“Will you tell me my future?” she teased.

“I believe, madam, you already know the future,” he purred, and was rewarded by her growing very still indeed.  He allowed her to remove her hand and focused on her eyes.

“Sherlock, what’s going on here?” said John.

“She’s a spy, John, or possibly an assassin,” he said watching her reaction.  “Oh, she’s definitely trained as an assassin.”

John jumped to his feet in alarm, but Sherlock gestured him down with a calming motion.  “Relax, she’s retired.  Feels guilty about her past, although she’s kept up her olds skills, just in case.  However, her main focus now is something different, something that allows her to work with both her brains and her hands.”

She stared at him, a faint smile still on her lips, but the underlying humor was gone.  Replaced by something else, possibly fear, possibly respect.

“She’s an assassin,” said John disbelievingly.  “For the government?”

“Was an assassin, and no, not for the current British government.  She’s from the future.”

“She’s from the future,” repeated John, signaling to Sherlock that his brain had gotten stuck.  Again.

He sighed. “Yes, of course she’s from the future.  Really, John, how can you be so dense?  That’s why she thought I didn’t have the necessary data to deduce her.  That’s why her handbag has the ability to store those rather large boots without stretching.  And that’s why the tag in her boots is in a language not currently found on Earth.”

She laughed, a pleased chuckle this time. “I do love an intelligent man, Mr. Holmes.  You really are very good.  Might even make my husband a touch jealous.”

“So you’re still claiming to be married, then?” asked Sherlock.

“Oh yes, everything I told you was the truth.  Or at least everything I said out loud,” she said, acknowledging her non-verbal deceit.

“Everything?”

“Well, almost everything.  Everything except my name.”  She held out her hand again, this time for a hand shake.  He accepted it.

“Professor River Song,” she said, “Archeologist from Luna University.”

“Pleased to meet you, Professor Song,” said Sherlock.  “We’ll take your case.”

This was going to be interesting.


End file.
